“Do I Call Her?” Why Showing Up for Grief Feels So Hard—And Why It Matters So Much

By Kelly Rae Robertson, NCC, CCTS | Mindful Coast Counseling

It’s a typical day at work when suddenly your cell phone rings. It’s a good friend calling to tell you that your mutual friend’s husband has died—suddenly, from cardiac arrest.

“He was so healthy! He ran every day. “Linda (we’ll call her that for the sake of this blog) must be devastated.”

You hang up, stunned. You haven’t talked to Linda in a few months, but you were once very close. You scroll to her number on your phone, but before hitting "call," you hesitate.

“She’s probably too busy."

”She’s surrounded by family.”

“My call would just bother her. I’ll just wait and say hello at the service. And I’ll send flowers.”

Let me ask you something:

Is this inner monologue really about not bothering your grieving friend—or is it about you not wanting to be bothered?

When someone dies—no matter who—it’s human nature to fumble for words that will somehow help.

“I’m so sorry for your loss."

Okay, that one’s solid. It's honest. It comes from the heart.

But then come the well-intended missteps:

“They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

“They’d want you to go on.”

“They’re in a better place.”

And then there’s the worst one, at least in my humble opinion:

“You have your whole life ahead of you.”

Cue panic attack.

Because when you’ve just lost someone you love—especially suddenly—the last thing you want to hear is how long you’ll have to live without them.

Let me explain.

My dad died when I was 14 years old. We were as close as two people could be. He couldn’t go anywhere without me tagging along—hardware store, tractor supply, even the polling place on Election Day.

I was probably four when the poll workers told me I couldn’t go into the voting booth with my dad. Excuse me?! I had a full-blown meltdown. Think Kevin from Home Alone aftershave scene—times ten. 

Back in the 1980s, the polling station was in the same building as the McCandless Police Department. So, I like to imagine a very serious emergency meeting went down afterward:

“We’ve got to do something about that tiny redheaded menace. She triggered a Code 5 toddler tantrum. We were one juice box away from a full SWAT deployment.”

And wouldn’t you know it—next year, there was a clown at the polls. Full makeup, bright orange wig, big floppy shoes. Just standing awkwardly in the corner, making balloon animals like a rejected birthday performer, until I walked in.”

"I always asked for a dog, because there are two things I love in this world: dogs… and more dogs. Rescue dogs, to be exact.

But here’s the weird thing—I never saw another child there. Not once.

I’m not saying they hired a clown just to keep me from melting down again… but I never saw him interact with anyone else. No kids. No balloons handed out to other eager little voters-in-training. Just a fully dressed clown, twirling balloon animals in silence, waiting for the return of the redheaded girl who once had to be physically restrained from entering the voting booth with her father.

So yeah… the clown was for me.

And in a weird way, for my dad, too. He earned that emotional support clown.

I was a Daddy’s girl, through and through.

And when people told me at his funeral that I had “my whole life ahead of me,” here’s what I heard:

“If I live to be 72, like my dad, I have to wait 58 years to see him again. Maybe I’ll get lucky and only make it to 60—46 years. But what if I live to 80? That’s 66 years without him!”

And the whole “he’d want you to go on” thing?

Really?

He and I were going to take a trip to Notre Dame once I got my license. We were going to see the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in D.C., and visit San Pedro, California, where he was stationed during the war. How exactly do I go on without that?

Let’s go back to the friend who got the call at work. She scrolls to her grieving friend’s number... and puts down the phone.

“Maybe later. Or I’ll just send a text.”

Let me ask again—who is that really about?

It’s not the widow. It’s the friend.

Because people are deeply uncomfortable with grief. So, they make excuses.

“They’re too busy.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“They’re probably surrounded by people.”

Then they show up at the funeral home and offer a hug. Maybe some rushed condolences. And then—because we humans fear silence like it’s death itself—we fill it with forced optimism:

“You’ll be okay.”

“They’re in a better place.”

“They’d want you to move on.”

Wrong.

Wrong.

So very wrong.

Hold on. Let me really drive this home—WRONG!

You’re not doing that to comfort the grieving person. You’re doing it to comfort yourself. Because you don’t know what to say. And you’re terrified of the silence. Or worse—the tears.

But let me tell you: those tears? They need to happen. And that silence? It’s sacred.

I once had a friend at the jail where I worked. A sheriff’s deputy we all knew—fit, kind, beloved—died suddenly. His wife, who also worked at the jail, had been close with everyone.

I asked my friend how she was doing.

“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you mean?” I replied.

“I haven’t called her. I don’t know what to say.”

Excuse me?! You don’t know what to say?

Here’s what you say:

“Hi. I just heard. I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m here. Day or night."

That’s it. Done.

And if you don’t know what to say—say that. Because not knowing what to say is actually a form of honor. It’s an acknowledgment of just how enormous this loss is. It means you recognize that there are no words big enough, deep enough, or right enough to contain what’s just happened.

When someone leaves this earth, their absence sends a devastating ripple through everyone who loved them. It crashes through hearts, memories, routines—everything.

There are no words. And that’s not you being unhelpful or uncertain.

That’s you standing in awe of a life that mattered.

This officer—the one who couldn’t bring himself to call his best friend’s now widow—was a former bouncer, a weightlifter, and a Vegas security guard who once worked on the set of Casino.

But grief?

Grief paralyzed him.

And I get it. Before I trained at the Highmark Caring Place, I used to say the ‘wrong’ things too. I didn’t know better.

But now I do. And now you can too.

Here’s what I learned from the Navy SEALs of grief support—aka the team at the Caring Place (with some of my own lessons mixed in):

• When you hear someone has died: CALL. If you can’t muster the strength, text. Say: “I just heard. I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m here.”

• At the funeral home: Say you’re sorry. Then stop talking. Count to ten in your head. Let silence breathe. It creates space. And in that space, people will talk. Because they need to.

• Never, ever say: “You have your whole life ahead of you.” It’s not comforting. It’s panic-inducing. All they’re thinking is: “I have to live 60 more years without the one person I want to be buried next to.”

Supporting someone through grief is hard.

But the formula is simple:

Show up. Be present. Stay silent.

That’s it.

And when the silence starts to scare you—when your throat tightens and your hands fidget—remind yourself:

The least I can do is show up—because their world just ended, and mine kept going.

About the Author

I’m Kelly Rae Robertson, a Licensed Associate Professional Counselor (LAPC), a Nationally Certified Counselor (NCC), Certified Clinical Trauma Specialist (CCTS), and EMDR-trained therapist with advanced training in grief and trauma, and supporting those who feel like the world’s gone quiet around them after loss. I’ve been there—and I’m here now, helping others navigate the waves that come after everything changes.

You can learn more about my work at Mindful Coast Counseling, where I help people of all ages find safety, healing, and hope again.

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The content of this post does not replace professional medical or mental health treatment or diagnosis.